


Ben Shapiro gets DESTROYED with facts and logic and a vibrator

by margaret_sexnose



Series: Ben Shapiro Gets Pegged [2]
Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, F/M, Hand Jobs, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Public Hand Jobs, Public Sex, Reader has a vagina, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Vibrators, dont read this william, good morning :/, if you are jeremy hodgson this is not who you think it is. keep scrolling, if you are william thompson im gonna write one with a hot air balloon, that’s a joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27797347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margaret_sexnose/pseuds/margaret_sexnose
Summary: Strap-ons are difficult to sneak into award shows filled with Republicans who are already deeply mistrustful of you. Remote controlled vibrators are a piece of cake to sneak anywhere. This is the story of how that goes.
Relationships: Ben Shapiro/Reader
Series: Ben Shapiro Gets Pegged [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955911
Comments: 20
Kudos: 28





	Ben Shapiro gets DESTROYED with facts and logic and a vibrator

**Author's Note:**

> no i don’t know what he’s getting the award for. no i didn’t do research for this. i write fanfiction about ben shapiro getting railed & i am not exactly your resident wiki on tv channels in america that would air this sort of thing, go watch one of his hour long podcasts or something. fact checking doesn’t feel like my problem, i am just horny & bisexual & don’t take responsibility for my actions xoxo

You always enjoyed being onstage— the adrenaline of it, the feeling of being important and in control, the song and dance of it all. Putting on a performance.

Staring out onto the rows and rows of republicans on the edge of their seats, a sea of painfully Caucasian faces stare eagerly back at you, the first woman they’ve seen in months who hasn't been actively filing a restraining order against them or running away from them in the streets. You cringe internally, but no matter; it is not your purpose today to right the wrongs of the world and educate white supremacists who will never accept that they are white supremacists, although that wouldn’t go amiss.

No, today’s purpose is to make Benjamin Aaron Shapiro come so hard he forgets his own name.

“I, Benjamin Aaron Shapiro,” he says into the microphone, “am so incredibly honoured to be receiving this prestigious award that you, my wonderful supporters, have decided to bestow…”

Christ, he’s annoying. You tune out almost immediately, turning your thoughts and thumb back to the little sleek black remote in your hand. It’s on zero at the moment, and its partner rests an inch or two up inside the man delivering one of his world-class rambling speeches next to you, just waiting to fuck up his perfect litany of words picked straight from the theasaurus.

You’d discussed it a week or so ago, the idea of using a remote controlled vibrator in a public place. He’d been thinking “restaurant”. You think “awards show aired on national television” isn’t that much different, anyway, and so it came to be that this whole fiasco transpired. 

“—And all of you intelligent, well bred alphas—“

You turn your head quickly so that no one will catch the smirk that flits across your face at the thought of this. Ben isn’t a stupid man; he knows how to play a room and right now this room is ten hours deep into a monopoly game, every pale and unmoisturised face gazing up at your fucktoy like he was birthed by Mother Teresa herself. Alphas indeed. Republicans are the easiest of all to manipulate with buzzwords like “American legacy”, “tradition”, “freedom”, and most noticeably, “alphas”. It’s the concept of being the best, you suppose; the most dominant, the most worthy, the most important.

Ridiculous.

Speaking of buzzwords, though…

Your thumb glides back over the remote and the slider that goes off a scale from 0 to 100, catching at every multiple of ten so that a manipulator can easily tell from touch alone where they’re putting their partner in terms of pleasure.

What the hell, you think to yourself, biting back another grin, and you slide it up to twenty.

Ben gives a little jolt and his knuckles go white on the sides of the podium, but nevertheless he continues with whatever nonsense he’s bullshitting about the state of what Biden’s America is going to look like now that the evil democrats want silly little things like rights. Thirty, and he turns his surprised gasp into a cough that makes the front row a lot less concerned than it should, considering the current climate. Nevertheless, the brave trooper manages to finish his sentence on thirty and- much sooner than planned- the speech itself within another paragraph.

The final “-and thank you all for coming!” merits a round of applause and your thumb going right back down to zero. You catch Ben’s face as it hits the big 0, and you can’t help the gleeful memory that resurfaces of you asking him to take his fingers out for the first time and the way he looked at you then. 

Republicans.

Really, one would think they were used to being let down by now. 

Ben tentatively steps off the podium like he’s expecting a foot to shoot out and trip him. No foot comes, but you stroke the black bullet in your hand keeping your eyes on him the whole time. They’re probably burning through the back of his thick skull.

“Sir,” you say, and internalise the look he gives you at the mere utterance of the word. You might as well be calling him ‘m’lady’ for all the accuracy it holds. “Sir, you seem a little hot. Have you thought about… taking off your jacket? And carrying it in front of you?” Your eyes drift the front of his trousers and then snap back up to his face meaningfully. “It’s only a suggestion.”

It takes a moment for the penny to hit the floor.

“Oh… I- um, yes. Yes, you’re right. Quick thinking- er- Y/N. I can see why I hired you.”

He darts his gaze back to the ground and shrugs off his suit jacket, bringing it to fold in half over his arms held in front of him. “Quite right,” he echoes quietly and then raises his eyes to yours. “Yeah. Are you going to come walk around with me?”  
“I’ll be right behind you,” you say and gesture for him to begin his introductions. “After you, Sir.”  
“Right. Okay.”

You haven’t bothered to learn anyone’s names here, but if the seven different Smiths on the hotel registry on the way in have anything to do with anything then it isn’t exactly going to be hard. You scan the room for anyone looking even slightly uncaucasion or under the age of forty, to very little success. At the end of the day, the bar is on the floor and if you can end the day by making Ben Shapiro come in his pants then it’s been a good one.

You’ve got a pretty smile and this is the time to shut up and use it— relying instead on the man nervously walking two steps ahead of you to do the talking for you. There are other ways than speech to get a message across, after all.

“Ah! Brett Anderson, might I introduce you to my assistant, Y/N? She’s been helping me with my speech and podcasts; she’s a wonderful, er, persuasive influence. Very confident. She’s been changing my mind on quite a few things.”  
“Good little girl! Been attending to his every need, eh?” Brett guffaws and throws his head back. “Not a bad looking thing. You’ve got yourself quite the ‘assistant’ there, Ben! How’ve you been getting yourself up that ladder, eh sweetheart?”

“I was personally recommended, wasn’t I, Ben?” You look at him expectantly. “Wasn’t I?” 

Your thumb slides up to twenty. Ben inhales sharply.

“Um! Yes. Yes, by only- only the best… the most influential… yes. Of course.” Brett looks at him, surprised.  
“Oh. Alright, then. Loved the speech, anyway. All that stuff about needing to uphold tradition, the role of the family… women’s places and all that.” He winks at you.

Forty, and Ben ducks his head so that Brett won’t catch his expression.

“Yes, thank you! Er, we’d better move on. Thank you, Brett; for your time.”

“What is your plan, Y/N,” he hisses as you both wander through the crowds, giving tight smiles to passers. “What’s the game, here? Every time someone else says something you don’t like, you decide I need an electric shock to- my- my…”  
“You can say prostate, Sir,” you murmur. “It isn’t a dirty word.”  
“It is where I come from from.”  
“It’s biology. I thought you people never shut the fuck up about biology. Besides,” you add as an afterthought, “it’s not an electric shock. It’s a vibration that’s making you feel really, really good, isn’t it?”

Ben says nothing, but he’s walking funny.

Another balding white man and his rather tired looking wife, who look at you like you’re something on the bottom of their shoes. The man talks to Ben for two minutes, about his secretary, and when his eyes fall back on you with a particular brand of leer that you’ve only ever seen on men who are undressing you with their eyes. Revolting. You take Ben to sixty, and he grabs your shoulder more roughly than he would normally dare and swivels you away from the pair and towards the information boards at the back of the room.

When he drags you behind them, he seems to realise where he is and who he’s dealing with, and lets go quickly looking embarrassed. It doesn’t matter. He gets his desired result anyway.

You wrap your hand around his throat, pressing down with your fingers on either side of his windpipe just enough to cut off most of the blood going to his brain (as if it wasn’t all flowing south anyway) and restrict enough airflow that his mouth opens wider to try to take more air in and he stumbles back into the wall.

One palm pressed to the semi that he’s got going on and the other hand holding him firmly in place by the throat— vibrator still at forty— you’re watching his face go from shock to pleasure to something you’ve only ever seen on people high as a kite on premium drugs.  
“I’m putting my hand down your pants, now,” you say casually, as if telling him it looked like rain. “Don’t make a sound. We’ve got a couple hundred people out there, and unless you want an audience to this you’d better learn to shut up and shut up, fast.”

“Shit-“ he hisses as your hand wraps around him, and he blows out air through his teeth and tips his head back against the wall when it starts moving. Eyes screwed shut, hands limp at his sides, you can tell that this man who is as loud in bed as he is on the debate podium is putting absolutely everything he has into being as quiet as he possibly can. It’s cute. 

It’s exhilarating in a way, keeping your hand moving where you can’t see it, focusing on the feel and the subtleties of short, sharp breaths and rustling of clothes, only several feet away from his cult of conservative geriatrics. You slide your hand up and down his length as he bites his lip, fingers still pressed to the sides of his throat, staring him down intently.

“I’m not the only one who’d like to be fucking you, today,” you whisper. Ben’s eyes fly up to meet yours.  
“What?”  
“I’m not the only one,” you repeat. “Didn’t you see that hunger in the room? The way they hung on your every word? They’d take it in fucking turns if they could, bending you over that podium, fucking you like a toy, filling you up. So dirty. You wouldn’t be able to stand for a week. How many people were in that room, do you think? A hundred? Two hundred?” You chuckle. “Imagine it, Ben. Imagine.” 

He comes, then and there, with a shudder that starts at his head and finishes at his knees that almost buckle underneath him. You have to take your hand off his throat and slap it over his mouth to prevent him from alerting everyone in a five mile radius to his orgasm.

“Careful,” you murmur as he twitches under your skilled hands, never breaking eye contact. “You almost lost it, there. You were being so good, too. So very good for me.”

“Y/N,” he breathes. “Y/N, can you please… I want…”  
“You want it taken out?”

He nods. Naive.

“Sucks to be you, doesn't it?” You pat him on the cheek, pull a packet of tissues from your handbag and press it into his palm. “Clean yourself up and I’ll meet you at the dinner reception in fifteen minutes, understand? Oh, and I’ll even take you back down to zero because you were so well behaved. For the time being, anyway.” The slider hits zero and Ben almost looks like he deflates. 

“I’ll see you then,” you say cheerfully, and stroll off back into the fray, leaving the spent man to wipe himself down like a child in disgrace. Dinner cannot come soon enough.

***

Ben Shapiro is not hungry.

He won’t stop telling you, and he won’t stop pushing bits of broccoli round his plate and looking up at you under his eyelashes while people around him battle for his attention and views on whether black people should be allowed to live or not. You’ve had him on zero for close to half an hour and he’s getting antsy, tense in preparation for something you’re giving him no indication is coming at all. Your dinner is delicious, and you’ve gotten good at ignoring the squinty eyes and bobbing heads that scrutinise you from all around the room and from the table you’ve been directed to.

Young upstart, they’re probably thinking. Not, young upstart who’s fucking Ben Shapiro until he can’t walk. The thought gives you some satisfaction, and you take another sip of your water as Ben continues to only have eyes for you.

“You’ve got coffee on your shirt,” you lie. “It’s just… it’s a splash. Did you want to go to the bathroom and clean it off?” Ben looks down at his shirt and you kick him under the table. When he starts, looking back up at you in confusion, you put out a thumb and pinkie and rest your head on your hand, as if making a phone call. You wink, and he stands up immediately.

“Yes! I’ll go do that now, sorry everyone. Be back soon.”

You watch his ass as he walks away, and then get back to your meal. You can feel the accusatory stares on you like flies, how dare you make him leave? We were only just getting started on how we were going to sign him up for our white pride group, hood optional. Only a minute passes until your phone starts buzzing on the table next to you, and you get to your feet immediately with a diplomatic smile to the rest of the table.

“So sorry, I must take this.” You take the opposite exit to the one Ben came out of and duck in just next to the door where there’s an empty corridor. Once you’re certain no one’s around, you press the little green button and raise the phone to your ear.

“Hello.”  
“I’m a bathroom cubicle, there’s no one else here.”  
“Good job. Excellent. If you lean over the toilet, like put your hands on the top so that any mess doesn’t go everywhere then we won’t have to inconvenience the cleaners of this fine establishment.”  
“Right, yes, of course.”

You hear the shifting of feet and a distant sort of thunk as he presumably rests his hands on the top of the toilet.  
“Y/N…” it’s coming breathy, quiet and restrained but you can hear the edge of desperation behind your name. It’s hot. “What do you want me to do?”  
“You can start touching yourself, if you want. Filthy slut that you are. In a public bathroom, too; dirty in more than one sense of the word.”  
“Yeah, yeah.” You hear the unbuckling of a belt. “Really great to think about when I’m trying to touch myself. Ravish me now, why don’t you?”

He’s a cocky little shit.

“You are. You’re disgusting, getting off to this. Getting off to your assistant talking to you, real fucking pervert, you’re no better than the men in there looking at me before. How did it make you feel? I could have a leg over anyone in there, but I’m not doing it. You’re mine, see? I’ve trained you well.”  
“Yeah… yeah, I’m yours… god, Y/N, what else am I? Tell me what else I am. Please.”

The rustling of clothes, a bit of audio where it sounds like the phone is getting jostled about— you can only assume if he has both hands occupied then you must be wedged between his shoulder and chin— and restrained, barely there breathing that comes irregular and choppy. 

“You’re a slut.”  
“Yes.” A whimper.  
“A fucking slut. You’re not even worth talking to, not really, and yet here I am taking time out of my day and schedule to have phone sex with a pathetic man jerking off in a bathroom cubicle. You’re not good for anything other than being fucked, only pretty when you’re covered in your own come and not even your precious followers have come to check on you since you’ve gone in. How does that make you feel?”  
A little laugh in between breaths. “Pretty turned on, honestly.”  
“Yeah, I fucking bet. God, you’re so easy. Ben Shapiro, resident fairground donkey where everyone gets a ride.”  
“Yes, mhmm…”

He’s still going, you can only just hear the sliding of his hand and the muffled noises it makes when it hits the skin of his stomach. The bathroom is echoey, and you can’t help but feel a repressed sense of glee that anybody could walk in and hear him— anyone could decide they needed a piss and effectively ruin this idiot’s career in minority bashing forever.

“How close are you?”  
“I’m.. I don’t think I’m close yet. It’s… it’s there but I’m not… I can’t really…”

Suddenly, you hear the banging of a door and the scuffling of footsteps as someone clearly makes themself present. All the sounds he’s been making immediately cut off, an air of unbearable tension tangible even over the phone. 

“Hello?” A voice comes from a little way away, coming echoey again like it’s underwater. “Mr Shapiro? Is everything alright in there?”

“Answer him,” you whisper. “Tell him you needed more toilet paper to clean the coffee off.”  
“I’m fine,” comes the cracked voice almost instantly, and then he clears his throat. “Um. Sorry. I’m fine, I’m just getting… I’m getting tissue paper to wipe my shirt. Coffee. Spilt it on myself. Sorry.”  
You step away from the wall, focused on nothing but listening as closely as possible.  
“Are you ill?” Comes the voice again. “You seemed really, um, not yourself at dinner? If you’re being sick or something you don’t need to be embarrassed. I could come in and help or something, I could get somebody. Call someone?”  
“No! I mean… no, thank you… I’m perfectly alright. Thank you. You don’t need to come in.”

The unsaid ‘please don’t come in, I’m getting talked into orgasm by the woman I’m calling my assistant’ doesn’t really translate, but the man backs off anyway.

“If you’re sure.” He doesn’t seem sure at all, but that scuffling comes again and then the bang of the door and Ben exhales shakily.  
“He’s gone.”  
“Who was it?”  
“Someone I work with. Helps me on the podcast.”  
“Jesus. Seemed worried about you.”  
“Yeah… well.”

You put your mouth closer to the phone as you watch someone cross the hallway about twenty feet in front of you.  
“What if you hadn’t stopped? What if you’d kept going? What if he’d asked you if you were okay and all you could do was keep fucking your own hand, kept making those sweet noises for me? I wonder what he’d think.”  
“Y/N…”  
“Just kept going, fuck it, why not call out his name while you’re doing it just so that he can have a story to tell when he gets back to the table? Ben Shapiro, your adored host, jacking off in the bathroom because he can’t control himself. Ben Shapiro, trousers halfway down his thighs, too desperate to even eat the dinner that was prepared for him like a teenager who’s just discovered a better use for his right hand than colouring in. Don’t you feel filthy?”

There’s a gasp, followed almost immediately by a little sob.

“Y/N… please…”  
“Aren’t you my slut. Aren’t you? Are you going to come?”  
“I… I….”  
Go on, then. Come for me, if you can.”

He does.

You hear it, in the shuddering intake of breath and then the sliding of something grating like the top of a toilet shifting from someone pushing too hard, and then he’s breathing hard into the phone like he’s just run a marathon. He’s being quieter than normal, a blessing and a curse. You want to hear him, really; want to hear your name rolling off his tongue in a fucking prayer that won’t be heard by anyone higher than the neighbours upstairs. But, this is good for now. This will do, you suppose.

“Good,” you murmur. “So good. Well done.”  
“Thank you,” he says, probably without thinking. You unclench your jaw you hadn’t even realised had been clenched.  
“Why don't you clean yourself up and we can go back to dinner? I’m thirsty from all that talking. You must be, too. Maybe now you can eat something, hm?”  
“Yeah… maybe.”  
“I’ll leave you to it.”

You end the call and readjust to your surroundings. Then, you glide back into the hall, putting on the biggest PR smile you’ve ever had to, and re-find your seat.  
“I think Mr. Shapiro will be back in a minute,” you announce to the table. “No need to panic.”

The looks haven’t changed, but you care even less. Besides, the night isn’t over yet. They might have even more to complain about soon.

***

The storage cupboard is quiet, the only sounds coming from within being your heels scuffing the cement as you try to get an even footing and some heavy breathing coming from below you. Outside is a different story entirely, the excited chatter and mumblings of a crowd gearing up to go live on telly. A predominant voice or two rise above the masses, ordering movement of the cameras and sorting of the clipboards and fetching of the coffees from interns that are just happy to be there. You’re trying to ignore it. You’re trying to keep your head straight.

“Come on,” your murmur, fingers carding through his hair from where Ben’s head rests at your stomach. “Come on, now; I’m sure that mouth has done worse things than give oral.”  
“I’ve never done it before.”  
“We can add it to the list of things that you’re trying for the first time, can’t we? What’s next? Cauliflower?”

No wonder Mor was perfectly satisfied to creep under the sheets with you every time her husband was away. The only thing that man can do satisfactorily during sex is make enough noise for the trumpets on judgement day, and he can’t even do that now. 

“I’ll guide you through it, see? It isn’t that hard. Most sapphics can learn how to do it quickly enough, and you’re a manly man who’s perfectly capable of using that mouth to undermine every minority you can think of. What else does that mouth do? What else could it do?”

He stares at you reproachfully.

“...Fine. You will have to give instructions, though.”  
“I wouldn’t dream of not giving you some sort of help.”  
“Good.”

You hoist yourself up onto the shelf that’s behind you, just so that his face is lined up with your thighs.  
“I’m flipping up my skirt, okay? It’ll just stay a bit above my waist. Nothing is actually coming off, because I refuse to explain that to anyone who decides they need-“ you glance behind his head, “-a packet of heavy duty cleaning gloves. Understand? Are you with me?”  
“Oh, I’m with you.” He’s staring up at you like he can’t quite believe his luck and yet knows he’s woefully out of his depth with this kind of worship.  
“Okay. It’s coming up.”

It comes up, and now he’s faced with the inside of your thighs and a pair of blue lace underwear.  
“Not pink?”  
“Shut up. You’ve found yourself in Eden, Ben. Stop complaining about the colour of the gates. Now, you can just kind of… use your mouth light around the inside of the thighs. Breathe a bit. If you’re feeling adventurous you could try kissing, sort of putting more emphasis on the pressure rather than any fancy mouth work at this stage. You don’t want to jump in at the deep end here and realise you’ve got nowhere else to go.”

You prefer him on his knees than on the podium, anyway.

He’s lost and it shows, but he still dutifully kisses his way up the inside of your thigh, his left hand hooked underneath your knee seemingly for a lack of anywhere else to put it. You wouldn’t call his grip film; perhaps it’s closer to tentative, like he’s worried you’re going to put that stiletto heel through his palm if he fucks up. The ring on his finger glints from the crack of light slicing through the dark cupboard, creating strips of gold across your leg. When it catches his eye he’s looking up at you, lips still grazing your skin. He very rarely has the good grace to be attractive, but like this? On his knees in front of you, like you’re something he has to worship?

You tilt your head.

“You could probably push the panties aside, now.”  
He does. He hooks his thumb across the front and pulls them so that he’s got full access to every part of you, and the cool of his hand against your skin makes you shiver in a way that you wouldn’t normally do around him. You don’t generally enjoy vulnerability, and especially not around transphobes, but it’s the first time that you’re thinking that perhaps he could catch on sooner than you’d expected.

“If you use your teeth at any point I’m going to break your neck,” you croon. “And don't even think about putting your fingers… like, in me. I don’t trust you to do anything I’d like.”  
“Not even with my mouth?”  
“No, no, your mouth is the only thing you’ve ever used correctly. I’m expecting great things from your mouth.”

He grins, like he’s got something to be proud of, and you just wind a hand into his hair and pull his head up to look at you.  
“Okay! And now what’s going to happen is you’re going to learn where the clitoris is.”  
“The what?”  
You sigh. “Prostate for women.”  
“Oh! I didn’t realise, that is- I wasn’t under the impression that—“  
“Yeah, I could’ve told you that.” You let him go. “Okay, you’re going to use the underside of your tongue. It’s softer and it’s generally going to be more pleasurable. Just… put that anywhere. Within the boundaries of between my thighs, I mean. I’ll tell you where to go from there.”

You can’t really see where his mouth is, but you sure as hell can feel it when it brushes against you. You shiver again.

“That’s… that’s good. Okay. You’re going to go up a bit, it's going to feel like you're in the wrong place but you aren’t. When you hit skin you’re in the wrong place, but until then it’s probably all safe territory.”  
He does so. When his tongue comes into contact with that one place, the place where the magic happens - you inhale sharply and pull his head closer to you with the aid of your leg swung around the back of his neck.  
“That’s it. That’s the- yeah. Stay there. But - but keep going.”

Your legs are trembling and you know it. It’s only partly from the man with his quick mouth on you, partly because outside you can hear people looking for him. It’s fucking exhilarating to say the least.

“Has anyone seen our star player?” It comes muffled through the door. You suppose the interview is going to start soon.

Yeah. Yeah, they have. Head between my legs, speedy learner that he is.

“You’re doing so well,” you whisper as he just keeps going up and down on the spot that’s making your toes curl. “Really, really good. Common misconception there; people think the trick is to go hard and fast. The trick is to go slow, and probably even to go lighter than you’d think. Build up to something.”

You can feel his hot breath on you, blood coursing through your body and heart pounding in your chest with the rhythm of his breathing. Really, you don’t know why you didn’t do this sooner. Mor is going to owe you her life.

“Try - try going in circles. Just little circles. You can kiss me if you want. It’s all the same, it’s all pressure. Just keep everything slick. Helps with the friction.”

“I'm beginning to understand what that woman was onto with that song,” he mutters, probably thinks he’s funny. You hum and he hums right back at you, causing vibrations that make you dig your heels into his back and bite back a moan. Internally, you curse yourself.  
“Ow! What was that - oh. Oh, right. I am, I am starting to… yes. I’ll do that again, shall I?”  
“You better fucking had,” you hiss through gritted teeth.

He puts his whole mouth into it, then; pushes forwards like he’s trying to unbalance you and you just lock your heels around the back of his neck and pull him in closer to stay exactly where you are.  
“God, I - Ben!” He’s got some stubble, barely any, barely a five o’clock shadow, but it’s rough against your sensitive skin and you can feel your brain cells and common sense starting to melt away. It’s a dangerous game. It’s so dangerous. You shouldn’t even be here, but fuck if it isn’t sexy as hell. He just keeps going, keeps using the underside and tip of his tongue to make your head spin. You hardly even register the noises from outside anymore.

In fact, they only register when you hear the door handle move, hear the rattle of the door on its hinges, and you almost jump out of your skin as Ben fully swears with his mouth still held fast against you, and that’s enough to push you over the edge.

Barely, through your orgasm that fills your mind with white noise and causes your thighs to squeeze together on either side of Ben’s head, you register that the door has not opened. On the other side comes a male, “I think it’s locked,” before the handle goes back to where it’s meant to be and you allow yourself to breathe again.

“Fuck,” says Ben shakily. “I don’t swear, I don’t like to swear, but fuck. Fucking fuck.”

You nod, registering how hard he is as you give him a little breathing space. “Fucking fuck,” you agree, uncrossing your heels at last and letting him sit back on his heels. “Fucking fuck indeed.”

***

“We bring you live to the hottest seat in the house,” announces a woman with a voice like artificially sweetened syrup. “Right here with Ben Shapiro, the legend known for having the smartest mouth and the quickest tongue in Los Angeles, who is going to be answering some of our most burning questions tonight; Mr Shapiro, how do you feel?”  
Ben looks like he’s on another plane of existence, which you can’t blame him for. His hair is only just back in place, podium stand only just above his waist, eyes wide and flitting around like he’s going to be ambushed by a sneak attack at any moment. Nevertheless, that golden mouth comes in handy for the second time that day.

“I feel fantastic, Kristy, receiving an award is always an honour and I’m just thrilled that I’m getting to receive it in front of the very people who put me here.”

A cheer rises from the crowd and Ben bestows a smile before looking back up to the interviewer.  
“Did you want to get the ball rolling with a question for me?”

He seems to be pretty confident in himself, as you suppose he should be after carrying out that little performance in the storage cupboard. That was… wow. That was something else. He’s looking at the interviewer as she feeds him a classic question, something about rioter behaviour in another country. It could be Poland. He probably thinks you’re done, that nothing else of noteability will happen for the rest of the night. Alas, he’s had it too good for too long.

“Excellent question,” he begins as every camera zooms in on his smug little face. “And one that I think can be answered if, hypothetically, we all imagine that the riots are for a good reason. In that case, what would - oh!”

You’ve taken him straight to 100, little black remote held in your hand like it’s a set of car keys for a fancy vehicle that no one is giving a second glance to. Not even when you’re onstage. He whips around to face you, a sense of alarm present in his eyes and a blush flooding his face. You cock your head and he turns back to face the audience who all appear to be on the edge of their seats.  
“...I’m sorry about that,” he manages. “I just thought I saw a light turn orange,” he adds, putting a lot of emphasis on ‘orange’. You take him back down to zero immediately and some tension vanishes from his shoulders. “Thank you - everyone, for your patience, there. As I was saying—“

You allow him to continue his silly little speech for close to two minutes before rolling the dial back up to fifty. By then, the interviewer has moved onto her second question and has opened the floor up for the ocean of idiots to ask Ben’s opinion on the legality of owning weapons, the religious point of view on homosexuality and probably what he’s wearing underneath if the hungry Republican eyes have anything to do with anything.

He responds to the change in pace, but only enough that someone watching out for the change could spot it. His hand goes to back of his neck, loosening the back of his collar in an attempt to increase airflow and his hands go a little tighter on the podium. You smile.

“Mr Shapiro! What are your opinions on— sir, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says hurriedly. “I’m- I’m just great. It’s a little hot in here, don’t you think? Please - um, please continue your question.”  
The tension in his jaw is unmissable to anyone looking for it, and boy aren’t you looking. Eyes fixed somewhere above the crowd, lips pressed together in a very good imitation of a pencil line, you don’t think he’s ever been less comfortable in front of a crowd in his life.  
“Yes,” he blurts out as soon as the question is over. “Yes, that’s an excellent point. Um. I would say, what with the state of the economy being wh- uh, what it is— yeah. God. It’s very - I wouldn’t really go as far as to—“

By now, the crowd is beginning to look thoroughly concerned. You hide a grin, dial all the way to 100 in your hand. The interviewer, the lady with the microphone, approaches him with all the caution of an inexperienced adult around a screaming child.  
“Sir? Do you want five minutes?” She touches him on the arm and he jolts likes she’s just smacked him across the face.  
“Not at all! Not at all! I- sorry! I lost concentration. It’s just… it’s hot.”

You bet.

The woman glances around the room, taking in the view of 200 people in full suits with jackets or cardigans for the women. 

She opens her mouth but Ben doesn’t let her go on, instead swerving back to the topic of the economy or some shit. 

You watch as he speaks, getting more and more flushed and less and less composed, looking more by the second as if he’s getting a blowjob under the table. A few people stand from the audience, embarrassed mumblings of feeling suddenly very warm reaching your ears from where you’re standing a couple of feet behind him. Your heart keeps pounding in your chest like you’re gearing up to give a speech on a topic you researched five minutes beforehand, and the back of Ben’s shirt is getting damp and dark with sweat.

By this time, you’re almost positive that half the room have 911 on speed dial; ready to be the hero of the hour in case Ben spontaneously combusts. Hell, you’re close to doing it yourself.

“One final question,” says the interviewer nervously, as if she’d much rather be hurrying him out of the hall in an ambulance. “What do you think of the laws being implemented in Poland at the moment to do with abortion? Should they be going ahead at such an extreme level?”

She says it like she’s praying he’ll just say yes or no and then get off the stand so that he can have a lay down and she doesn’t have to be responsible for writing a witness statement to a sudden death. Sadly, concise was never Ben’s style.

“I think while they’re a little - uh - extreme,” he starts, shaking like a leaf in bad weather. “I do, um, I do think that anyone it’s a- ah-! Affecting, should, um, it’s their own fault, isn’t it? It’s irresponsibly- at the core- um, it’s people who value clear thinking- lower than sexual pleasure— oh!”

And with that, he lurches forward, eyes squeezing shut, breathing so hard that the podium stand actually shakes with him, and you speedwalk up to him as the room errupts into panic.  
“Pretend to pass out,” you hiss, and he immediately drops like a puppet with its strings cut to the floor. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than the top news story being “Ben Shapiro visibly nuts on live television” at the very least. As he goes down, you drop you your knees beside him.  
“Give the man some air!” You shout as the whole camera crew look to be dashing forwards. “He’s fainted.”  
“Turn that fucking thing to zero,” he breathes, eyes screwed shut. You do.  
“Sorry about that.”  
“No you aren’t.”  
You smile. “No, you’re right. I’m not. Now shut up before Twitter finds out that you’re not really unconscious.”

He obeys, to his credit.

“Paramedics are on site,” says the interviewer in a rush. “I’ve phoned an ambulance, they’re on their way.”  
“Perfect,” you beam. 

Ben cracks open one eye and groans as a group of frantic looking paramedics rush to his side.  
“Sir- sir! Do you know where you are? Can you tell us your name?”  
He stares at them for a second.  
“Sir! Do you know your own name?”  
He stares at them blankly, the words not rising to his tongue in the way that they should. You stand up and turn your back so that no one sees your smile.  
“I’ll phone his wife.”

You can’t really blame Ben for not being able to state the current political climate when he can’t even remember his own name. Today was a success, you think privately. You just hope Ben has the good sense to keep his jacket over his waist while he’s being questioned. 

That’ll be a fun trending hashtag on Twitter for the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> give me comments so that i can show them off as reviews of my writing xx love u guys hope u had a good time reading this


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